A Case of Mistaken Identity
by AnalisaPh54
Summary: They say everybody has a twin. Has Scott found his? The mysterious entanglement of two men and a little boy looking for his father.


**A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY**

Scott wasn't lost. At least that's what he kept telling himself, thinking he might have taken the wrong turn at the junction of three roads some miles back. On the last leg of his three hundred mile journey, he could have camped out one more night but he hoped that Green River wasn't much more than a handful of miles ahead and from there only a short ride – relatively speaking - to Lancer.

Home; a warm bath, a snifter of good brandy, a brief respite in his favorite chair by the fire and then up to bed. His bed! Crisp cotton sheets, an overstuffed pillow, a hand stitched patchwork quilt to snuggle under. Nothing could be better. By the time he reached the ranch and tended to his mount, everyone else would have gone to bed. He would have the house to himself. He could wait until breakfast to give his report to his father, he wouldn't have to answer a dozen questions from his brother, he could even raid the cold box and pantry without Teresa's admonishing scowl. Ah, peace!

As Scott stood at the bar in Coyote Bend finishing a beer, he asked the bartender which road would get him to Green River the quickest. Two old timers sitting at the table directly behind Scott, who were sipping sarsaparillas and playing a game of checkers piped up.

"Ride out of town to the west. Go about a mile to the fork in the road. Can't miss it, sonny, got a big old oak tree smack drab in the middle of the junction of the two roads. Take the left one and it will take you within spittin' distance of Green River." The man in the buffalo plaid shirt and red suspenders instructed while he contemplated his next move.

"Naw, Jeb, that's the long way 'ta round. This young feller's probably got a sweet thing awaitin' him at home and he sure as tootin' wants to get there as quick as a wink." The other man spoke never taking his eyes off the board. "Boy, if ya take the other road there is an old stagecoach trail. It's a might overgrown but you can clearly see the two dirt tracks where the wheels used to run. Follow it straight along and it'll take ya into Green River from the back way. Take . . . oh . . . ten, maybe twelve miles offin' your travels. Yep, that's the way I would go."

Jeb finally made his move to be immediately jumped by the other man – winning the game. "Dag nab it! How many games does that make?" Jeb remarked, pounding his fist on the table.

"You mean tonight or over the seventy some years we been playin'?"

"Quit you're darn gloatin' and set 'em up agin'."

Scott, leaning one elbow on the bar in order to watch these two old timers start another game, chugged down the remnants of his brew and grinned. He could almost picture his brother and himself hunched over a checker board in their old age. Scott reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar coin. Tossing it on the bar he told the bartender it was for his beer and to buy Jeb and his partner another round. Scott pulled his hat down from its perch on the crown of his head and started toward the door. There was a nearly full moon in the sky which would provide enough light to make his way home.

Scott hoisted up into the saddle and turned his horse west. All the business places were closed for the night and no one was about. When he was about a mile down the road, he stopped his mount and debated whether to take the more traveled road or to take the shortcut by the old stage trail. Stifling a yawn he recalled the man's words "take ten, maybe even twelve miles off your trip". Boy that sounded good.

Scott could plainly make out the two dirt tracks and so urged his horse toward them. Occasionally thick clumps of trees blocked out some of the moonlight but if Scott looked up ahead, he could find the trail easily in the patches were the silvery light shown through.

The woods became more and more dense not only with trees but low, scraggly bushes as well. The trail, however, lay pretty straight so Scott slowed down his horse just a touch and continued on, reassured every time he spotted the rutted dirt. Unexpectedly the moonlight grew dim and as Scott looked up to the sky, he found thick clouds drifting across its surface. Soon there was no light at all.

Scott twisted in the saddle to look behind him. Although he really couldn't see anything he figured he had traveled about eight miles. Green River couldn't be too much further. Scott squinted into the darkness ahead not exactly sure if he should try and keep going or resign himself to the fact that bedding down and staying put until dawn might be the wiser choice.

Always the sensible brother, he sighed as his thoughts of a bath, a brandy, and a bed drifted away. Getting down from his mount, he patted the horse on the neck. "Well Jasper, at least we won't be pestered way out here. I don't think anyone has used this trail since the main road was built." He tethered the animal to a nearby tree and removed his saddle. Tucking his bedroll under one arm, he picked up the saddle with his free hand and found a small clearing thick with dead leaves a few feet away.

Scott tossed the saddle on the ground then spread his tarp down over the damp foliage. At least it would be soft, he thought as he dropped to his hands and knees to smooth out the creases in the oiled cloth. He debated about building a fire but it suddenly seemed like so much work and besides it was a relatively warm night and his jacket and blanket would keep him pretty warm. Using his saddle for a pillow, he pulled his hat down over his eyes and tugged the blanket up over his chest. He rested one hand lightly on the rifle lying next to him. The stillness of his surroundings and the increasing darkness from the drifting cloudbank made falling sleep especially easy as Scott soon discovered.

Suddenly there was a deafening crash. Scott startled awake and immediately sat up grabbing the rifle in both hands. A blinding light forced Scott's eyes to snap shut and by the time he opened them again there was another earsplitting boom. This time Scott could actually feel the ground tremble beneath him. Jasper was frantically trying to pull the reins loose from around the tree trunk where Scott had tied him. Rearing up as far as his tether would allow at the next flash of light, Scott ran to the horse and tried to calm him.

Scott had no idea how long he had been sleeping. He rubbed at his eyes with his left hand while trying to hold the horse by the reins with his right. The wind was howling through the bare branches of the early spring trees. Nearly constant lightning flashed intensely and the thunder reverberated only seconds behind. There was no rain – yet – but surely it couldn't be far behind in such a ferocious storm.

Scott tried to sooth the frightened animal, talking to him and rubbing his neck but just as he loosened the reins in order to lead Jasper over to where his saddle lay, a narrow bolt of bright white lightning followed in a split second by the loudest crash of thunder Scott had ever heard scared the horse and he easily pulled the reins out his master's hand and ran away. It was no use calling after him, Scott reasoned. Jasper would never hear him over the din. Scott knew he needed to find some kind of shelter. Grabbing up his saddle, tarp and blanket he waited for the next flash to illuminate the woods which were black as pitch. He didn't have to wait long.

The next collision of thunder and lightning hit the large hickory tree where the horse had been tied and split it right down the middle. Scott fought down the feeling of panic rising within him. It wouldn't do to just run off willy-nilly and get lost besides. He said a prayer asking the powers that be to lead him to a safe haven in which to wait out the storm. That's when he saw it. A big white house with green shutters only about thirty yards distant. He waited for the next flash of light then made a beeline toward the wide front porch.

Leaping up the few front steps, he dropped his saddle, tarp and blanket on the porch floor in order to catch his breath. The house was dark except for a small window on the second floor that faced east. It was with the help of that little window that Scott found his way in the darkness between the flashes of light.

Scott thought it strange as the house otherwise appeared to be disserted. He could now see the paint was peeling and the shutters faded. One of the posts was broken and the porch roof sagged in several places. He stood there for a moment wondering what to do when suddenly the front door opened on creaking hinges almost as if someone had made his decision for him. Grasping the knob, he opened it a little wider and almost had a heart attack as two raccoons ran out and over his foot.

"Hello?" He called loudly. When no one answered, he took a couple steps into the foyer and was immediately ensnared by cobwebs. Brushing them away from his face he crossed to stand at the bottom of the stairs, where he called out again thinking whoever had a lamp burning upstairs might hear him but there was no reply. Although the lightning still flashed almost continuously, it seemed less ominous and the thunder had settled down to a distant rumble.

Something had rolled across the floor just a minute before and stopped near his feet. Using the next lightning flash, he saw it was just the very stub of a candle. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he pulled out a match, struck it on the splintered wooden floor and held it to the wick. As the flame grew, Scott stood and held it at arm's length out in front of himself, turning slowly to survey what he could of the room.

Lacy spider webs swayed gracefully in the breeze coming through the open front door. A thick layer of dust frosted the floor, the stairs and the furniture. In fact, Scott could clearly make out his boot-prints leading from the threshold to the staircase. Walking through a large ornate archway, he found himself in what he supposed was the front parlor. An upright piano stood against one wall, pitched forward on a broken caster. A green velvet tufted settee sat opposite and next to the settee stood a small walnut table with a beautiful hurricane lamp upon it.

Scott crossed the wide expanse of oak flooring hoping to find oil in the lamp but alas it was dry and the wick brittle. It obviously hadn't been used in quite a while. Two small sewing rockers sat, one on either side of the grand stone fireplace. Scott saw there was kindling in the box and decided to start a fire, not so much for heat but for light. Having used his last match to light the candle, he rummaged around until he found some matches in a brass box on the mantle. He stuffed a few in his shirt pocket then squatted down to strike another on the stone hearth. He soon had a nice sized blaze, its golden glow filling the room and making it feel almost homey.

Now that Scott had some light to see by, and since the candle was almost burned down to his fingertips, he tossed it into the flames and wiped his hands on his pants. He picked up one of the candlesticks - complete with a new candle – from the mantle. Lighting it, he explored the remainder of the first floor.

Going through a narrow door on the north wall of the parlor, he found himself in the dining room. Scott waved his arm in front of his face to swat some of the cobwebs away and walked in further. He could see that at one time the room must have been quite elegant. A long mahogany table sat in the center with six chairs around it. A sideboard sat along one wall complete with cut glass decanters of liquor. Scott grinned. He thought for sure some drifter would have found them by now and drained them dry. Setting the candle down, he pulled the stopper from one and held it beneath his nose. Bourbon the little engraved silver plate said. Another brandy and another scotch.

Picking up the candle again he walked over to a small cabinet in the corner. The door was partially ajar and when Scott pushed it open, he found it to be a wine cupboard. There were about a half dozen dusty bottles within and Scott picked one up out of pure curiosity. He blew the dust away enough to read the label. It was a fine burgundy, the label dated 1859. Scott imagined it was extraordinary by now having aged unopened for so many years.

Scott slowly pushed open a swinging door to find himself in the kitchen. There was a large cast iron stove on the far wall and a long counter with a basin and pump under the half windows on the opposite wall. A small work table with an enameled top stood between the two and a cold box stood cattycorner near the entrance. Scott saw there was no back door which he found somewhat unusual but even stranger was the table against the far wall.

It was completely set as though someone had just been about to eat a meal. One chair was even pulled partially out and an unfolded linen napkin lay on the seat. A small china plate had probably held bread at one time as it sat right next to a small crock which had probably held the butter. The crock was nearly licked clean and the bread long since eaten by animals. Walking over to the stove, Scott found two large heavy iron kettles setting on the back burners. The covers lay on the floor and, peering in cautiously, Scott found that both were empty and had most likely met the same fate as the bread and butter. He glanced toward the cold box but decided to leave well enough alone.

The kitchen had two doors and so he circled through into a small room which appeared to have been used as a back parlor. There was a tufted leather chair in one corner with an ottoman sitting in front of it. Another small sewing rocker sat in the opposite corner with a table nearby. Scott grinned and walked over to it. An embroidery hoop held a square of dust covered yellowed fabric on which the petals of a rose had been partially stitched in the center. It reminded him of Teresa and her needlework. A small pot-bellied stove sat in the center of the other wall and the two large windows were framed by limp, dingy lace curtains tied back with blue ribbons.

Against the far wall stood a narrow bookcase filled with volumes. Curiosity again tugged at Scott's sleeve so he squatted down and held the candle close to the books in order to survey their titles. Some of the spines were illegible from repetitive handling, the gold print nearly worn off, but the others – although not new – could be clearly made out. Shakespeare, Chaucer, Dickens, Byron, Keats, Poe among others. Scott stood. Well, whoever had lived here at one time had excellent taste in literature for these were among his own favorites.

Going through one more door, Scott found himself back in the foyer. Two leaded glass windows framed either side of the home's entrance and a now-dead fern stood in a wicker planter in the corner. A large fancily-carved hall tree held two umbrellas, a man's overcoat hung on one hook and a pair of ladies gloves lay on the seat.

Scott felt as though he had traveled back in time. Heavy brocade drapes graced the front parlor window, pictures hung on the walls, the table set in the kitchen, the volumes in the bookcase and the items held by the hall tree. Why would anybody leave these things here and why hadn't some saddle tramp or other unsavory character stolen them by now? It was almost like the people that lived here had just up and evaporated one day. A shuddered ran up Scott's spine.

Just then a brisk wind blew in through the front door and ruffled Scott's hair from behind. Walking out onto the porch it suddenly struck him that the storm had ended just as suddenly as it had begun. The thunder and lightning had stopped and the rain never came. Deciding he might as well stay the night, knowing he could never find his way out of the woods in the dark and with no horse besides, he grabbed up his gear, went back in the house and closed the door.

Scott had forgotten his concerns over the second story window telling himself it must have been a reflection of the lightning for the house was dead quiet and the undisturbed dust on the stairs a clear indication that no one had used them recently. Scott made a bed in front of the fireplace. Tossing a good sized log on the low flames, he settled himself down. The floor was hard beneath him but at least he had shelter. While offering up a short prayer of thanks, he drifted off to sleep.

CHAPTER 2

Scott knew he hadn't been asleep long when he sluggishly opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. There was some kind of noise coming from directly above him and it was starting to irritate him. Hoisting himself up he lit the candle and ran his free hand through his hair.

Climbing the stairs cautiously in case of damage, he stopped on the upper landing. Before him lay a long, somewhat narrow hallway crisscrossed with spider webs. A thick dark colored runner ran the entire length coated by a heavy layer of gray dust. Scott could make out some small animal tracks close to one wall - probably the raccoons that had run out as he entered. The noise had stopped.

Scott began to think his mind was playing tricks on him. He hadn't had anything to drink except that one lone beer so that couldn't be it. He had eaten a hearty lunch so it wasn't hallucinations from hunger. He had been sleeping well, even when on the trail, so . . . Maybe he had been dreaming; his mind ruminating about the storm, the loss of his horse, invading shelter that had been someone's home . . . He chuckled. This was going to make one entertaining story for his little brother who was always quick to tease his older sibling anytime the situation might be chalked up to age. As he stood there, Scott could almost hear Johnny's comment 'they say the mind is the first thing to go Boston'.

Scott was just about to go back downstairs when another strange sound came from the room at the end of the hall. He could swear it sounded like a ball bouncing against the wall. He wondered if the window had been left open or was perhaps broken and the wind was playing tricks. As he took a couple steps forward, however, the noise abated. Swiping some of the cobwebs with his arm, curiosity again got the better of him.

Scott opened the first door and let the candle lead him into the room. It was spacious with a large brass bed standing opposite the windows. What once had been a fancy patchwork quilt covered the mattress. Even in the dim light, Scott could see that it was faded badly from the sun coming in the west window. A small table stood on the other side with a bible on it. A tall chest of drawers occupied the corner near the windows and Scott pulled open one of the small half drawers to find neatly folded men's handkerchiefs, a pair of cuff links, a couple string ties and a small jar of shirt buttons – some still with the thread looped through the holes. Shutting it he pulled open the other one. There was a couple pair of lady's gloves, a scarf, a small bottle of perfume and an open tin holding various items of costume jewelry. More oddities, he thought, closing the drawer.

A large wardrobe stood opposite the bed and Scott just had to look inside. It was filled with clothing - men's on one side and a woman's on the other. The top shelf held a couple simple ladies' hats, a man's hat – quite outdated – and on the bottom stood two pair of men's shoes, one pair obviously work shoes and the other dress shoes. There was only one pair on the woman's side although an empty space indicated that at one time another pair had stood there as well.

Turning to leave, he discovered the framed photograph which hung on the entrance wall. It was a wedding photograph of a young couple, he sitting and she standing. The groom looked scared to death but she looked stunningly serene. Her dress was white but very plain. The bride wore no veil but had a few flowers in her hair and she held a huge rather droopy looking bouquet of white roses. She was very, very pretty and her hair appeared to be very light, probably blond.

The young woman's demur smile reflected in her large, round, twinkling eyes. The way her hand rested on the groom's shoulder looked almost as though she was holding him down. He wore a dark suit which didn't quite fit, a plain white shirt with a heavily starched button on collar, and had a rather sick looking white rose pinned to his lapel. He had light hair too with bangs fringing his forehead, light colored eyes and a very full handlebar mustache.

Judging by the clothing he had discovered, Scott reasoned that this young couple must have been the folks who had lived here. Why had they fled so suddenly? Scott raised his eyebrows as he shook his head. He just didn't understand.

Walking over to the door across the hall, he found another bedroom. This one was smaller and very plain. A single bed, a small bedside table, a three-drawer bureau and a narrow wardrobe – both empty. Scott didn't bother to explore further as it appeared to be a guest room. The next door opened to a cupboard filled with shelves on which lay sheets, towels, a blanket, two pillows without slips, and a basket of whatnot. Closing that door, he opened the last door on the east side of the house. He immediately thought of Teresa and her always wishing she had a sewing room.

Counters ran along three sides of the room. A window faced south and another window faced east. A very old fashioned sewing machine sat before one of the windows and fabric, ribbon, a jar of buttons, spools of thread, pattern pieces and assorted other notions covered the countertops. An ironing board sat in the center and a couple of cast iron irons sat on the top of a small stove in the corner. There was a partially sewn garment still lying across the machine, the presser foot holding it in place and the needle sunk deep into the fabric.

There was only one door left, directly across the hall from the sewing room. Even though the noise had stopped Scott found his palms sweaty as he reached out for the doorknob. He took a deep steadying breath and prepared himself for perhaps another animal to run past. Finally opening the door, he found the room brightly lit although not from an apparent source. No candles burned and there was no lamp, no sconce and no ceiling fixture. With one foot barely over the threshold his candle flame flickered once and then went out. As he bent to set the candlestick down just inside the threshold, he noticed his hand was trembling slightly.

Scott studied the room. There were no spider webs and no dust. The wooden floor shone as though just waxed and in the center lay a bright, colorful woven rug as clean as though just put down; a wooden rocking horse sitting just off-center. Obviously a child's room, low shelves lined three walls and were filled with toys of all kinds. Blocks, a top, little carved animals, a brightly colored ball, wooden boats and lots of books.

On the fourth wall sat a low bed with side rails that extended from the headboard half down its length. It was covered by a cheerful hand-pieced quilt and a small pillow in a sparkling white slip. A rocking chair – this one with arms – stood near the corner, a neatly folded blanket draped over its back. Pristine white curtains framed the small window, looking freshly laundered and pressed. Scott recognized its size and shape as being the small window – lit from within – that had led him to the house during the storm. He thought twice about that fact and then completely dismissed it as coincidence.

Scott ran his fingertip over the top of the dresser to find not a single trace of dust. Opening the top drawer, he discovered clothing fit for a little boy. Overalls, shirts, pants, a sweater. In the next drawer socks, underwear and night shirts. Scott stooped down and picked up the little pair of button shoes partially hidden by a bottom shelf. He smiled remembering that as a boy of about three or four he had a pair of shoes just like these. This pair was quite worn but of good quality.

Turning to leave Scott froze. In the exact center of the doorway sat the brightly colored ball. His eyes immediately went to the shelf and saw an empty space where this particular toy had sat just minutes ago. He knew it was the same ball as it was mainly orange with very narrow stripes of bright yellow, lime green and purple around its middle. Scott paused trying to reason away the toy's appearance in the doorway. He knew the floors were slightly uneven as he felt the lean – especially on this level – while he walked. Had it simply fallen off the shelf as he had walked around on the wooden floor and stopped where the wood met the edge of the runner?

Swallowing hard, Scott had the feeling he wasn't alone in the room any more when suddenly he heard a young child's voice. It sounded like the word "pa" only drawn out like "_paaaawpaaaw_". He cocked his head and listened intently. Nothing. Maybe a rush of wind had come down the hallway. Yes, that was it. Scott grinned. He was scaring himself. Using his thoughts he attempted reassurance; 'I am an adult man' 'I lived through the war; compared to that this is nothing.' 'I'd never hear the end of this if Johnny ever found out'. And lastly, running his hand along the outside of his right thigh, 'I sure wish I had my gun'.

Scott's heart began to pound. He breathing quickened and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He shuddered as goose bumps popped up on his arms and the hair on the back of his neck bristled. Suddenly he didn't like being in this particular room at all but there was no way to leave except to go out the door, retreat down that long hallway and down the staircase.

Scott picked up the ball with shaky fingers and placed it back on the shelf. Standing in the doorway he quickly scanned the room once more. There certainly was nothing frightening about it; after all it WAS a child's room. Just then the rocking horse began slowly moving back and forth and Scott recognized the sound as being the one that had awakened him. 'Must be the warped floor boards.' He mused, but then the horse began to rock faster and he could have sworn he heard a little boy's laughter.

As suddenly as it had started it came to a dead stop but within seconds the rocking chair began moving gently back and forth; a low but tuneful humming emanated out from that corner of the room. A woman's hum. Soft and dreamy like a mother rocking her child to sleep. It was too much. Scott picked up the candle, lit it quickly and stepped back into the hallway closing the door solidly behind himself. In fact, he double checked that the latch had caught by pushing against it but the door held fast.

Scott's pace retreating back down the hall was considerably more rapid than when he had first set foot on the runner. Looking behind himself just before stepping down on the first stair, he clearly saw his boot prints in the dust. Practically running down the remaining stairs, the first thing Scott did was buckle on his gun belt and make sure his revolver was fully loaded. His heart still raced but gradually his breathing settled down. Rubbing the back of his neck he whispered, "I must be losing my mind."

Stooping in front of the fireplace, he placed several large pieces of wood on the flames. The room didn't need heat but Scott wanted to surround himself with as much light as possible. Remembering his brother's words "never leave your back exposed", Scott picked up the blanket and chose the front corner of the room as his safe haven.

Ensuring that the large window was unlocked and working he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. Suddenly he was shivering. Propping the rifle against the wall within easy reach and sinking down to the floor, he pulled the edges of the blanket around his arms and laid his revolver on his lap – the fingers of his right hand resting gently on the grip. From here he could see into the back parlor, through the dining room door into the kitchen and part of the stairway. Closing his eyes just to rest them, he concentrated on his hearing; the quiet almost deafening. Scott had meant to stay awake.

CHAPTER 3

Just before sunup, Scott awoke with a start. It took a couple seconds to remember where he was and why, then focused on the reason he had been awakened in the first place. It sounded like footsteps coming down the front stairs. Thump, thump, thump . . . not loud as though the heels of shoes or boots were echoing off the bare wood but softer and less distinct. The descent was very rhythmic yet slow as if whoever was there was in no great hurry.

Scott swallowed hard and, picking up the revolved, held it toward the foyer but flipped the corner of the blanket over it to conceal it. Thump, thump, thump . . . the sound was getting closer; whatever it was it was getting nearer to the bottom of the staircase. From where he sat he could only see the bottom four steps which directly faced the front door. He waited. There was no shadow with which to gauge the size or gender of the intruder. It did not, however, sound like an animal.

Scott watched. He knew it was almost to his line of sight. Thump, thump . . . Scott's eyes got wide. "Oh my God!" he murmured to himself. He gripped the revolver tighter. Sweat broke out on his forehead again and his heart began to race. Thump, thump . . . the ball stopped as soon as it had rolled off the bottom step and onto the foyer floor. Scott stared at it. Slowly the ball began rolling. It rolled to the left of the stairway, through the arch into the parlor and directly toward Scott. "_Catch paaaawpaaaw_!" It was the same little boy's voice from the night before but Scott did not divert his attention as the ball came closer and closer. Finally it stopped right next to Scott's left knee.

Scott sprang to his feet and jumped to the other side of the chair but the ball just followed. Goosebumps immediately erupted on Scott's arms again and his breathing became fast and shallow. For the first time in his life he had to admit to himself that he was damned scared. Fighting at Gettysburg, dodging musket balls and cannon balls and being taken prisoner hadn't frightened him near to the degree that this child's simple toy did. He had to be imagining things.

Squaring his shoulders, he tossed the blanket aside and holstered his gun. Here he was, a strong, virile man over six feet tall and afraid of what? I little brightly colored ball that fit easily in one hand? He took a step forward and the ball rolled back about the same distance. He took a step to the right, the ball rolled to its left. He took three steps backward; the ball rolled the same distance forward. It HAD to be the floors, he thought. He jumped up and down in place a few times but the ball didn't move. He decided two could play this game.

Scott backed his way through the dining room only to have the ball follow. He backed into the kitchen, the ball followed. Scott would need to take a sharp left to get to the other door and so he took the turn and backed his way toward the second doorway. The ball followed. Suddenly he broke into a run, slamming the parlor door firmly behind himself. He stood with his shoulder against the polished wood and leaned his full weight on it. There was only a tiny, tiny space between the bottom of the door and the floor; too small for the ball to fit through. He stood there a full minute, watching and listening. Nothing. He shifted his weight back onto both feet and placed his hands on his hips. Scott smiled. He had beaten the toy at its own game – whatever _that_ was. The sun had crested the hill during this little skirmish and streamed in the windows adding to Scott's feeling of security.

Walking through the back parlor to get to the front foyer Scott was going to pack up and – as they say – get the hell out of Dodge! Looking over his shoulder, half expecting to see the ball slithering under the kitchen door, he grinned until he turn his head back around. Exactly in the center of the foyer, about a foot away from the bottom stair, sat the colorful little ball. How could . . . There was no way . . . But it would have had to . . . Scott was getting frustrated and when he got frustrated it turned to anger pretty quickly.

Scott strode over, picked up the ball and ran up the stairs two at a time. Marching down the hallway, he had forgotten that he had firmly latched the door closed the night before. The door was still closed tightly. In fact Scott had to use his shoulder to force it open. Scott put the ball down on the empty space on the second shelf. "You stay there and leave me the hell alone." he shouted, shaking his index finger at the toy. He felt absolutely ridiculous. There had to be a simple scientific explanation but he was damned if he could figure out what it was.

Scott glanced around the room. Nothing else was disturbed or out of place. He closed the door again – firmly – then walked into the sewing room and grabbed a chair. He thought about forcing the high back of it under the doorknob but as the door opened in it would do no good. Scott went back in the room and picked up the sewing machine. It was extremely heavy and even using both hands to carry it Scott had to struggle. He turned the back of the chair to the door and placed the machine on its seat. Going back into the sewing room one more time, he grabbed a long piece of sturdy binding. He wrapped the binding several times around the doorknob and then several times around the chair, tying it tightly. Taking the left over length, he looped the binding through the arm of the machine a few times and tied it again. Using all his weight to pull at the knots, neither the door nor the chair would budge. That would show that little ball who was boss.

Scott bounded down the stairs. Using a pail from the kitchen, he pumped water into it and made sure the fire was extinguished. He threw his blanket and tarp over his shoulder and grabbed up his saddle. Looking up the staircase as he passed, he yanked open the front door and tossed his things on the porch. He slammed the door behind himself and ensured it was latched. Squatting down he quickly put his bedroll back together and tied it with the leather lacings. Tucking it under his left arm, he grabbed the saddle with his right hand. He hurried away from the house as quickly as possible, looking back over his shoulder just once.

Scott saw something in the distance and couldn't believe his luck. It was Jasper. Slowing his pace to safeguard against frightening what might be a jittery horse after the storm, he made sure his step was light and measured the nearer he got. He started talking in a low calming voice and when he said Jasper's name, the horse looked up at him. Gently setting down the saddle and bedroll, he approached the mount with open hands, patting his neck when within reach. The horse seemed perfectly calm.

Scott checked him over well, especially his legs and feet, but found no injuries. He led Jasper over to where he had left his gear, saddled him, tied on the bedroll and mounted. This whole time the horse stood still and quiet. Scott turned toward Green River. Once assured that Jasper was indeed the same mannered horse he remembered, he kneed him into a slightly faster gait. He wanted to put as much distance between him and that house as quickly as possible.

CHAPTER 4

Scott rode into Green River sooner than he expected. In fact, he couldn't have spent the night more than a couple miles away which – if he had known – he would have toughed it out and stayed the night there in the livery if necessary. Scott, being hungry, thought he'd stop and ask Sheriff Crawford to breakfast. Val never refused an invitation to a free meal and so gladly accepted. Together the men walked the short distance to the café, sitting at a table toward the back. The owner approached with two cups and a coffee pot which she placed in the center of the table.

"Mornin' fellas. Know what you want or do you need a couple minutes to decide?"

"Morning Mable. Well, I know what I want how about you Val?"

"Go ahead and order. I got to have a minute to think about it."

"What can I get for you then, Mr. Lancer?"

"I want scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns," Scott lifted his chin to look over Mabel's shoulder. "Is that pie I see over there?"

"Well, yes, but its yesterday's. If you're interested I can give you a piece half price."

"What kind do you have?"

Mable turned to check. "Apple, mincemeat and blueberry."

"Oh a piece of blueberry would be wonderful." Scott said, rubbing his hands together.

"I'll give you a piece of mincemeat for free," Mabel said looking over the top of her glasses. Scott tried hard not to let his aversion show.

"No. Blueberry is my favorite."

"I don't know why I make those mincemeat pies. No one ever eats them. Coffee or do you want something else?"

"Coffee's just fine," Scott answered, pouring himself a cup. "Val, you decided yet?"

"Course I have. Just a listenin' to you made me hungry. I'll have the same as him." Mable was just about to walk away. "Exceptin' I want my eggs sunny side up." Mable made a note and turned to leave. "And instead of bacon I want ham." Mable made another note and looked at the sheriff over the top of her spectacles. As the man appeared as though he was satisfied, she glanced at Scott who grinned and hung his head.

"Sunny side up and ham instead of bacon."

"Yup." Val answered, folding his hands in front of himself. Just as the older woman took a step away he spoke again. "And make those fried potatoes instead of hash browns and toast instead of pie and a big glass of milk to go with my coffee."

Mabel looked at Scott and very slightly shook her head. Scott cleared his throat and took a sip of coffee. "I'll have the same. . ." she mumbled, finally walking away.

"So you just gettin' back from that trip Johnny told me about?"

"Yes. If it weren't for that storm that came up so quick last night I'd be back at the ranch now. I don't know what spooked Jasper more, the lightning or that earsplitting thunder. I thought for sure we were in for a torrent, maybe even hail. The wind just howled." Scott shuddered remembering the eeriness of it all. He took another sip of coffee, holding the cup in both hands. Val gave him the strangest look.

"Where did you end up?"

"Well actually it's kind of funny. I stopped at the saloon in a place called Coyote Bend for a beer and to get some directions. A couple old fellows were playing checkers and they told me about this shortcut so I took it thinking it would save me a dozen miles like they said but, I tell you, when that storm came up . . ." Just then Mable brought their breakfast. She served Scott first before a disgruntled look spread across her face as she put Val's plate down. 'I'll have the same', she thought.

"Did I hear you say you got caught in a bad storm last night Mr. Lancer?"

"Boy did I ever. Lightning struck a huge hickory tree right in front of me and split it clear in two. And the thunder! I could actually feel the ground shake. Poor Jasper. He got away from me and hightailed it out of there so fast I thought I'd never see him again!" Scott took a bite of eggs.

"Where in heaven's name were you? Couldn't have been close. We didn't have no storm last night. In fact, the night was clear with a near full moon in the sky."

"Turns out I was less than a couple miles from Green River. You must be thinking of a different evening because there is no way you could have missed a storm like this one." Scott exclaimed. Mable locked eyes with the sheriff and shrugged. There was no storm in or around Green River the previous night. Mable lived in a small house way up on top of the hill. She could see for miles in every direction. She distinctly remembered leaving her windows open. With thunder as bad as the man said, she would have been roused in an instant but who was she to argue. _HE_ probably had _HIS _nights mixed up.

The men ate in silence for a time but Scott kept looking up to find Val studying him. Finally, he took a sip of coffee, wiped his mouth with his napkin and laid his forearms on the table on either side of his plate. "Okay, what?"

"What what?"

"You have been staring at me ever since I brought up this storm. So what's the look for?"

Val finished his potatoes, drank a deep swallow of milk and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now maybe this storm came from the east or maybe from the south or even from the north but it didn't come by our way and if you were only two miles from here, don't you think we'd have at least seen the lightning?"

"So you're telling me the same thing Mabel did – no storm, clean sky, moon . . ."

"That's what I'm a sayin'." Val leaned back, interlaced his fingers and laid them over his belt buckle. "If there was this storm, so you say, you must have had to find shelter somewhere. What about Jasper, you said he was scared."

"I found this abandoned house just a few yards off the trail. I was sure glad to find it too. I expected a downpour to start at any minute and when the lightning split that huge tree right down the middle I prayed I wouldn't be the next one to suffer such a fate. Like I said, Jasper ran off. I figured he would be back at the ranch by this morning but I found him standing just a little ways up the trail. Lucky thing or I'd have been walking."

"What is this trail you keep talkin' about?"

"It's just an old trail. An old stagecoach trail I was told. Jeb said it would take off ten or twelve miles between Coyote Bend and here. Everything was going fine until the moon got blocked out by those storm clouds. Black as pitch in those woods, I tell you."

Val's eyes narrowed and his forehead furrowed.

"Oh now I suppose you're going to tell me there is no house out that way. What next? No stagecoach trail either?"

Val sat forward and tilted his head a little to the right. "No, I ain't gonna tell you there was no house and I ain't gonna tell you there was no stagecoach run neither. This house, was it a big white one with green shutters and a front porch?"

"Yes, that's the one. Probably was a really nice place at one time. It's pretty run down, at least on the outside. Needs paint."

"Uh huh," Val mumbled. "And who did you say told you about that there trail?"

"The man's name was Jeb. He and another man about his age were sitting in the saloon in Coyote Bend playing checkers. I don't know what the other fellow's name was. They argued about which way I should go and left it up to me. I wanted to get home so badly I chose the shortcut which, I guess, really didn't turn out to be one after all."

"Uh huh," Val mumbled. "This house. You went inside?"

"Well of course! Wouldn't have been much shelter from that storm to stand outside and the porch wasn't very protected. You know Val," Scott narrowed his eyes and raised his right hand to wag his index finger as he spoke. "There was something really strange about that house. I mean, everything inside was just as it would have been had the people still lived there. Even the kitchen table was set for a meal. Clothes in the drawers, quilts on the beds, even liquor in the decanters. I just couldn't figure it out. I mean I would have thought vagrants would have pretty much looted the entire place by now."

"Uh huh," Val mumbled.

"Would you quit saying 'uh huh'. It's starting to drive me crazy!"

"Well I done think you've already been down that road."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You done?"

"Yes."

"Pay the lady and let's go." Scott laid the money along with a generous tip on the table and nodded to Mable with a grin on his lips. Val was already halfway back to his office so Scott trotted up the boardwalk to catch up with him. "Come on in and sit a spell. We'll talk some more." the sheriff said while gnawing on a toothpick.

"Another time Val. I really want to get back to Lancer, take a hot bath, put on clean clothes and sleep for about three days straight." Scott untied Jasper and swung up into the saddle.

"Well okay, suit yourself. Thanks for the meal. Say hello to Johnny for me and remind him he still owes me for stakin' him at last week's poker game." Scott nodded and kneed Jasper into a trot out of town. Val watched him ride away through narrowed eyes. Scratching his head, he went in his office, tossed his hat on the windowsill, plopped down in his chair and lifted his legs up so his boots rested on the corner of the desk. He had some thinkin' to do now that his stomach was full. Before long, however, his head began to bob and he dozed off.

Scott received a warm welcome when he got home. Johnny offered to take care of Jasper, Teresa gave him a peck on the cheek and his father shook his hand and slapped him lightly on the back. Murdoch was anxious to hear about the contract negotiations his son had made but Scott begged off saying he would be more than happy to fill everyone in at supper but first he wanted that bath, the clean sheets he knew he would find on his bed and a nice long nap.

Scott felt so much better by meal time. Teresa had grilled steaks and made baked potatoes and apple crumb pie, all his favorites. He filled the others in as they ate.

"So the trip went well then?" Murdoch asked, a forkful of pie in his hand.

"Yes Sir. It was a mighty long way but had good weather right up until last night. That sure was some storm!" Scott took a sip of coffee.

"Where'd you find yourself Boston?"

"Well, that's the thing. I was given directions down some old stagecoach trail. When the storm came up, it was so ferocious that I held up in this old vacant house. Come to find out this morning I was only about two miles outside of Green River." Scott drained his cup. "That reminds me little brother, Val says you owe him some money from last week's game."

"Oh he does, does he? He seems to have forgotten about the money I lent him last month so's he could buy that new gun belt. Where did you see the good sheriff?"

"Stopped in and invited him to breakfast. You know Val, can't pass up a free meal!" They all laughed knowing how true that statement was. As they retired to the great room, Murdoch poured a snifter of brandy for both himself and Scott. Johnny declined an after dinner drink and Teresa never partook unless it was a very special occasion, and then only sipped a sherry.

Murdoch filled in his eldest son with what had been going on around the ranch and what needed to be done in the coming week. Johnny challenged his brother to a game of chess. A warm inviting fire crackled in the hearth and Teresa rocked gently as she stitched. All in all – now that Scott was home safe – the Lancer household was back to normal.

CHAPTER 5 

Val hadn't slept well ever since his breakfast with Scott Lancer. He kept going over and over the conversation they had shared. The storm, the house, the contents inside, all of it. He got up with the sun one morning, got dressed and walked over to the jail. Tossing his hat on a chair, he made a strong pot of coffee. Usually able to decipher any situation given enough time to think on it, he was stumped.

Pouring himself a cup of joe, he settled back in his chair and hoisted his feet up onto the corner of his desk. Taking a couple sips of the steaming brew he suddenly remembered seeing a folder left behind by his predecessor along with some other files. Dropping his heavy boots to the floor and pushing himself up, he walked over to the filing cabinet. He shuffled through a few folders before taking one out and laying it, opened, on top of the others. He flipped through a few sheets of paper – reports mostly – until he found what he was looking for. Val picked up the open folder in both hands, rounded his desk, sat down and put the folder in front of himself.

Unfolding one of the yellowed sheets inside carefully, he leaned back in his chair, swung his feet back up to rest on the corner of the desk and studied the image before him. He had recalled a type of "wanted" poster that had been made up years back in hopes of finding Lieutenant Driscoll. In the center was his Civil War photo and below a brief description: six feet tall, slender build, sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, thick handlebar mustache, aged about twenty-three years.

Val stared at that likeness until his eyes began to water. He startled when the office door opened and the doctor walked in.

"Got some of that rotgut you call coffee for a weary man?" Without waiting for a reply, Sam walked over to the stove, blew the dust out of an empty mug and filled it with the inky black brew. Taking a sip, he shuddered. "I'm surprised this . . . stuff doesn't eat right through the cup."

"Uh-huh," Val muttered not really paying the good doctor any attention.

"Been up all night. Why do babies always come in the middle of the night? I don't know why the Stanicks needed me. This was her tenth – no – eleventh child. Why Peter Stanick delivered three of them himself. All I did was sit there and supervise." Sam paused to study Val who obviously wasn't listening to a word. "Yes sheriff, I tell you, Isabelle Stanick gave birth to the most beautiful pygmy goat I've ever seen."

"That's nice." Val mumbled. He had taken out a blank sheet of paper and a pencil. Placing the image of Hiram Driscoll beneath it he began to trace.

"I didn't know you could draw."

"I ain't drawin', I'm tracin'." Val continued without falter. When he was finished he picked up the sketch and knew immediately why the man looked so doggoned familiar. "Take a gander at that, will ya?"

Sam took the paper from the sheriff's hand. "Why did you draw a picture of Scott Lancer?"

Val sat back and grinned. "Ah-ha!" he exclaimed, bringing a puzzled look over Sam's face. "That ain't Scott Lancer but you thought it was. Proves my point!"

"What point? What are you talking about? This is most definitely a likeness of Murdoch Lancer's oldest son Scott."

"No it tain't and I can prove it." Val picked up the wanted poster and handed it to Sam. "Take away that fat hairy critter on this man's lip and who do you got?" Sam laid one sheet over the other than separated them again. It was uncanny. Val was right. But for the facial hair they could have been twins.

"Okay, this isn't Scott Lancer. So what's all this about?" Val explained the conversation he had had with the blonde Lancer son. Sam listened intently.

"I kept the newspaper clippings on the Driscoll family."

"Well don't just sit there shootin' the breeze, go get 'em." Val waved his hands to motion the doctor toward the door. Only moments later Sam returned with an envelope in his hands. On the front was written "DRISCOLL TRAGEDY". Sam reached inside and carefully pulled out the contents.

"This happened only a year or so after I came to Green River. Old Doc Bailey asked me to take his place in the investigation." Sam gingerly unfolded the top clipping. The paper was fragile and the ink slightly smudged. The type was tiny and Val had to squint in order to read it.

"**Tragedy Befalls Driscoll Family For The Second Time This Year"**

**September 1863**

This agent is saddened at having to report yet the occurrence of another tragedy within the Driscoll household. You may recall from a previous article that the Driscoll's owned a big white house with green shutters just a couple miles east of Green River on the stage coach trail. In fact, the house was the stopping point for food and fresh horses for many years until the new main road was constructed.

The first misfortune befell the family in the early spring when the couple's young son died of pneumonia. Although everything possible was done medically for little Frederic, the disease had too great a hold on him. His mother had tended him for seven weeks before the angels carried him away to his heavenly father. The child, who would have turned four years of age the following Tuesday, was beloved by everyone he came in contact with. Even at his tender age, he was always polite with a ready smile that radiated from beneath thick blonde bangs and large round blue eyes. Many locals attended the funeral knowing Mrs. Driscoll's husband was away. It was reported to me as having been witnessed by those in attendance that near the end of the service Mrs. Driscoll – standing at the very edge of the grave – fainted and fell forward landing on top of her son's coffin. It was necessary for four strong men to jump down into the grave to extricate her. She was taken in the house and attended to by several of the ladies present.

The second heartbreak befell the family this past week. Mrs. Driscoll, overwrought with the sorrow at losing her only child and having to bear the entire burden of that loss upon her shoulders alone, ultimately chose to end her suffering by taking her own life. A sudden violent thunder and lightning storm caught a man traveling the old trail and spying the house, he sought shelter for himself and his horse but upon approach saw the woman hanging from a sturdy branch of a large hickory tree just a short distance from the front porch. Riding into Green River proper, he immediately reported his findings to the sheriff who gathered together some men from town and went out to investigate. Mrs. Driscoll had been dead for at least two days; a sturdy rope tied around her neck and a couple wooden crates - which had been kicked away - under her feet. It is believed she chose that particular spot as her son was buried there in an as-yet unmarked grave. The degree of emotional distress was made clear upon inspection of the property.

The house showed obvious signs of neglect. Cobwebs had begun forming in the corners and a heavy sprinkling of dust frosted the floors and furniture. Apparently the woman was just about to sit down to supper when the notion of her deed overcame her. The kitchen table was set, a pot of stew stood on the stove, even her chair had been pulled out and an unfolded but unused napkin lay nearby. Upon investigation of the upper floor, the rooms were in much the same condition. Although clothes hung neatly in the wardrobe and the beds were made, the rooms had neither been dusted nor swept for some time. Even a garment lay across her sewing machine only partially stitched. An oddity did announce itself, however, when the child's bedroom was entered. It was immaculate in condition. The toys were all in place, the books neatly shelved, the little boy's hobbyhorse positioned at the ready. It was supposed that, except for meals, Mrs. Driscoll spent all her hours confined to this room. A private burial was held with only the sheriff, the town doctor, the undertaker and the minister in attendance. She was laid to rest beneath that big hickory tree next to her son."

Val refolded the clipping and handed it back to Sam. The doctor unfolded another article and handed it to the sheriff.

"**Returning From the War Man Finds His Wife and Child Dead"**

** September 1864 **

Hiram Driscoll, husband of Analisa Driscoll and father to Frederic Driscoll came home upon discharge of his service to the United States. Lieutenant Driscoll, who served in the Civil War Union Cavalry since the autumn of 1861, was in total shock when he approached and then entered his dwelling. He found all furnishings, dishes, clothing, toys and other items exactly as he remembered them upon his departure but he could not find his wife or son. Driscoll immediately sought information from the sheriff of nearby Green River only to be told of their deaths; his child from pneumonia and his wife by her own hand. He immediately became extremely distraught, acting out wildly, and the sheriff and his deputy had to restrain him long enough for the doctor to arrive and administer a sedative. For his own safety he was kept in a locked jail cell for the next two days until the initial shock of the loss lessened and he could be released. That very night, however, the citizens of Green River became alarmed when they saw a bright glow in the sky. A few men rode out returning only minutes later to report that the Driscoll house was on fire and too far gone to salvage. As there were no other dwellings in the near vicinity it was decided to let the fire burn itself out. By midmorning of the following day all that remained was part of a stone fireplace. Lieutenant Driscoll was never heard from again. It is unknown if he simply walked away or if he perished in the fire. The ashes were combed through by a group of men deputized by the sheriff which included the town doctor. No bones were found but the fire had burned so hot – apparently from the use of an accelerant – that even the cast iron kitchen stove was partially melted. It would, therefore, be impossible for human bones to withstand such an inferno.

Val laid the second clipping down on the desk then crossed his arms and placed them behind his head. Obviously there was no way that Scott could have been sheltered from the storm inside the Driscoll house. It, along with all its contents, had burned to the ground years ago. The partial fireplace was even gone. The sheriff just couldn't get the conversation with Scott out of his head. How could he have known so many details? Had he heard the story somewhere and dreamed the whole thing? There just didn't seem to be an explanation that was believable enough to satisfy Val's mind.

Exhaling loudly, Val dropped his feet to the floor and his head into his hands. "Sam I just can't get my head around this whole situation. Is Scott just plain loco or what?"

Sam thought a minute, twiddling his thumbs slowly. "No, I don't think Scott Lancer is crazy."

"Then how do you explain it?"

Sam pursed his lips then scratched his jaw. "I can't. I can't explain it but wait, it gets even stranger." The doctor reached into his pocket and pulled out another clipping, unfolded it and flipped it on Val's desk. "Here, read this."

"**WHITAKER BROTHERS DEAD"**

**Well-known Checker Champions from Coyote Bend Died Within Hours of Each Other**

**October 1852**

Amos Whitaker and his brother Jebadiah (better known as Jeb), early settlers in Coyote Bend, died yesterday afternoon within three hours of each other. Amos awoke feeling poorly and the doctor was sent for. Dr. Jenkins did all that was possible but at the advanced age of eighty-six years there was little hope as it was diagnosed as heart trouble. He died within the hour, his brother sitting at his bedside holding his hand. The doctor prepared to leave and was just climbing into his buggy when he heard a noise behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Jeb lying in the cabin doorway – his hand clutching his chest. Wrestling the man back inside and over to his bed, the doctor diagnosed him with the same fate as his brother. His heart was beating erratically and Dr. Jenkins knew the end was near. Jebadiah died just over two hours later with the fine doctor by his side and holding his hand. Jeb was only eleven months younger than his brother making him eighty-five. Neither brother had ever married, living together in the small one-room cabin on the edge of Wolfcall Ridge. You never saw one brother without the other and their past years were spent at a corner table in the saloon playing checkers from sunup until sundown. A staple of the town, they will be sorely missed. They were buried side-by-side in the prairie cemetery just outside of Coyote Bend.

Val sat back in his chair still holding this last clipping in his fingers. He shook his head slightly from side to side and looked into Sam's eyes with bewilderment in his. Sam shrugged his shoulders.

"You know Val, one of the main reasons the town built the new road was that there were more and more stories circulating about that particular stretch of stage trail being haunted. People claimed all kinds of things: a young woman standing just about where the porch would have been and waving to the passengers; a little boy running out in the road to retrieve his ball; a woman gasping loudly as the coach would pass that hickory tree . . . The stage was losing business because no one wanted to go that route any more. Who knows? One thing I'll tell you for sure though. Every time there was a sighting it was either during a storm or just before one. Maybe it was the same for Scott."

"So what do we do?"

"How did he seem otherwise to you? Any quirks?"

Val shook his head. "No, acted like the same old Scott; soft spoken, polite, at ease. . ."

"My advice?" Sam queried. "Say nothing. If Scott seems to be fine in believing what he does, forcing the truth on the man would only serve to cause self-doubt. If – someday – Scott brings up the story again; rides out there to find no house or says something about his experience we can show him the clippings but don't do it without me there – just in case. Until such a time – if it ever comes – I think we'd both do best to just forget the entire incident."

CHAPTER 6

Scott fell right back into the daily routine at Lancer. Riding fence, clearing creeks, repairing line shacks, moving herds, auditing ledgers and keeping an eye on his little brother. In fact, just this afternoon he and Johnny were building a new lean-to on the west line shack. It was Friday so Johnny was anxious to finish. He wanted to sprint home, take a quick bath, put on clean clothes and be in town before sunset. He hadn't spent any time with Hilda in weeks and the way he had been carrying on all day to Scott, Johnny probably wouldn't come back to the ranch until late Sunday night. As it was hotter than blazes and they had been working in the sun, all Scott wanted was a cool bath and a cold glass of Teresa's good lemonade.

"Why don't you take off? I can finish. There's only a couple more boards and to put the tools away." Scott suggested, wiping his forehead on his shirt sleeve.

"Really? You wouldn't mind?" Johnny was already backing up slowly in Barranca's direction.

Scott chuckled. Oh to be young again! "Go. Give my regards to Hilda."

Johnny whooped and clapped his hands. "Boston, I do believe I owe you one."

"You owe me . . ." By the time Scott had the words out Johnny was already down the hill and headed up the road towards the arch. "Oh Johnny. One of these days your lifestyle is going to come back and bite you in the . . ." Scott stopped in mid-sentence. He thought he had heard something. Always alert to wild animals, Scott moved his rifle over to within easy reach.

Tucking a few nails between his lips, he worked the last board into alignment and drove in the nails to hold it. There it was again. Scott took the extra nails out of his mouth and tossed them, along with the hammer, on the ground. Picking up his rifle, he turned to study his horse. Jasper appeared calm, grazing contently in the shade. If there was a wild animal prowling around, the horse would show signs unless the animal was downwind.

Scott scanned the tree line but saw no movement. He turned his head toward the stream but detected nothing. There was barely a breeze, much less any wind, so that wasn't it either. Lowering his rifle to the ground, he kept it right next to him as he finished nailing the last board into place. Bending down, he picked up the pry bar, the hammer and the tin of nails. Entering the shack he put them back on the shelf. Looking around to ensure everything was in order, he walked out closing and latching the door behind himself.

Scott's shirt was soaked with sweat and his hair plastered to his head. He reached up to swipe his bangs to one side. Hearing the gentle rush of the stream he was so tempted to walk to its bank and splash his face and chest with what he knew would be cool water. Debating, he stood with rifle in hand halfway between Jasper and the creek. That's when he heard it again only this time is was slightly louder and much clearer. There was no animal he knew of that made a sound that imitated human speech and what Scott heard sounded like the word "_paaaawpaaaw_".

Scott thought maybe he was having a heat stroke. Shoving his rifle in the scabbard, he grabbed his canteen. It was only half full but that was enough to take two swallows before pouring the remainder over his head. Scott looped the strap of the canteen over the saddle horn and swung up on Jasper's back. Suddenly a shudder ran up his spine and out his arms to the very end of his fingertips. Goose bumps erupted and the hair on the back of Scott's neck stood on end. He felt as though he was being watched. It was not a feeling he welcomed. Urging his mount forward down the hill, he broke into a full gallop once on the road.

Johnny was bathed, shaved, dressed and headed out to Barranca by the time Scott rode up. His little brother hummed while he saddled his horse. Scott road Jasper right into the barn. Johnny stared as his older brother passed. Tightening the cinch, he led Barranca out into the alley.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked.

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong with me." Scott groused while lifting the saddle and blanket off his horse and tossing them on the top rail of the stall.

"Hey Boston, seriously. Are you okay?

Scott latched the stall gate behind himself and began unbuttoning his shirt. "Yah, just hot is all. Why?"

Johnny took a step sideways to block his brother's path. "Because you look like you've seen a ghost, that's why."

Scott put his hands on his hips. "No, not a ghost, but after you left . . . well, there was something up there; an animal of some kind. I didn't see it but I could hear it every now and again. I finished the shack, put the tools away and got the hell out of there. Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to get out of these sweaty clothes and take a nice cool bath before I melt all over your new boots."

Johnny stepped aside and waved his arm as if to show Scott the way. After Boston left the barn, Johnny stood a minute. Scott was spooked all right, but he didn't think it was by an animal. Oh well, he was okay now and Hilda was waiting. Johnny leapt up into the saddle and waved his hat to the hands as he passed. Green River was calling his name and who was he to not answer.

Scott entered the house through the kitchen and bounded up the back stairs. He grabbed some clean clothes, went back downstairs and poured himself a large glass of icy cold lemonade before heading for the bath house. Once inside, Scott had to literally peel off his garments they were so plastered to him by sweat. He gulped down about half the lemonade while waiting for the tub to fill, sat the glass within arm's reach and stepped into the tepid water. He groaned in pleasure as he sank into the tub. Holding his breath he slid completely under the water to cool his head and didn't come up again until forced to by lungs pleading for air.

Leaning back against the rim, Scott drained his glass then closed his eyes content to let his body sway with the rippling waves. The water was growing chill but Scott didn't care. In fact it felt good. Sighing, he supposed he should wash his hair and lather his body. Supper couldn't be far off and neither Murdoch nor Teresa appreciated stragglers. Briskly drying off Scott dressed but left his feet bare. Carrying his boots in one hand and his dirty clothes in the other, he crossed the short path to the back door, tossing his dirty clothing into the laundry room basket as he passed. He sat his boots at the bottom of the back stairs and wandered into the great room.

Murdoch was already enjoying his before dinner drink so Scott poured himself a small bourbon. His father was reading the newspaper but as Scott walked by on his way to the sofa, Murdoch peaked out around its edge and over the top of his glasses. "Bare feet?"

Scott looked down and wiggled his toes. "Just this once?" he asked with such pleading in his voice Murdoch couldn't refuse. In fact his father chuckled.

"Just this once but you better take your place at the table before Teresa spies them or she won't give you any supper."

Scott sat on the edge of the couch resting his forearms on his knees. The heat had really gotten to him and he felt drained. He had tried everything to acclimate to it but his fair skin seemed to absorb it like a sponge. Scott tossed back his drink. Teresa had just walked into the dining room from the kitchen with a basket of biscuits meaning the main entrée wouldn't be far behind. Scott took his father's advice, jogged over to his chair and tucked his feet beneath the table just in time.

Scott fought to stay awake during the meal, stifling a yawn more than once. Immediately after dessert he excused himself saying he was going to bed. Murdoch asked him if Johnny had said anything about when he would be back from town and Scott merely rolled his eyes. Forgetting all about his bare feet, he walked into the kitchen to retrieve his boots.

"Scott Garrett Lancer. Please tell me you didn't come to the supper table with bare feet." Teresa chided. Scott simply grinned, picked up his boots and took the back stairs two at a time. "Oooooooo men!" He heard Teresa growl as he turned the corner into the upstairs hallway.

Scott found his room stifling. He opened the window as wide as it would go but that wasn't going to help much as there still was only a slight breeze and it was from the south. Pulling off the quilt and blanket and tossing them into the chair, he got undressed. He wished he felt as comfortable as his brother when it came to nudity but . . . leaving on his cut-off drawers, he stretched out on the cool cotton sheet. He kept thinking back to his afternoon. Had he really heard the word "pa" or had a combination of other sounds blended into one that just happened to sound the same? And he couldn't dismiss the feeling that someone had been watching him. Scott rolled on his side and bent his arm up under the pillow. He had been bothered by dreams lately. Not nightmares exactly, but disturbing nonetheless.

Scott would find himself back in the white house with the green shutters. The woman from the wedding picture would be walking down the upstairs hallway but she wasn't wearing the white gown. She was wearing a dress made out of the material Scott had seen laying on the sewing machine half finished. She would go into the child's room and sit in the rocking chair and rock slowly back and forth while humming a sort of lullaby. There was a little boy lying in the bed. He had large round blue eyes and thick blonde hair with bangs that nearly reached his eyelashes.

Somehow Scott knew in the dream that the child was no longer alive but the woman seemed not to notice. Then Scott would see the little boy lying in a grave – no coffin, just his body. He would be dressed in a sapphire blue velvet suit of a short collarless jacket, a white shirt with a narrow ruffle around the neck and cuffs, knee pants, white knee socks and black button shoes. He was holding something in his hands but Scott always woke up right before he saw what it was.

Tonight was no different. The woman, the little boy, the grave, the object. Scott forced his eyes to remain closed so that he could see what the child held. He tried to see it every night and every night he would wake up just seconds before he could make it out.

Scott swung his legs over the side of the bed. A light sheen of perspiration covered his arms and chest. It was just so very hot. He went over to the pitcher and dipped a washcloth into the water. Wringing it not quite dry, he folded it and held it against the back of his neck. It helped for the few moments it remained cool but it was never long enough. He wrung it out in fresh water and wiped his face with it. Tossing it aside, he laid back on the bed. He willed himself to feel a cool breeze and it must have worked as he fell back into a dreamless sleep this time to awaken just after sunup.

Scott ate a lite breakfast with his father, forgoing hot coffee for cold juice. He was feeling guilty for not having taken care of his horse properly last night. He had made sure Jasper was fed and watered, but had forgone his grooming. He told his father he would be out in the barn for a while.

Even this early in the day, walking into the barn was like walking into a furnace. Scott checked all the water pails and found them nearly dry. He hauled at least two dozen buckets of cold water from the pump, poured out any remaining stale water and refilled the pails. The horses immediately began to drink. Not that it would matter because there still was no real breeze, he opened the tack room doors, pushed the main doors open as far as they would slide then walked down the length of the alley to open the wide door to the corral.

Scott wished he could do more for these poor animals but other than giving them fresh water throughout the day he felt he had done all he could. Entering Jasper's stall, he picked up a brush and began stroking the animal gently while talking to him softly. He told Jasper about his dream as though the horse could understand and offer an explanation.

Scott was sweating heavily again. In fact sweat dripped off his bangs and into his eyes. Taking a handful of water out of Jasper's pail, he splashed his face then swiped his bangs to the side. He was just finishing combing the horse's mane when he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Exiting the stall and securing the gate, he tossed the brush and comb in the box and squinted down the alley to the far door leading to the south corral. There was something there but he couldn't quite make it out. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and walked slowly toward it. About halfway down the lengthy alley, he stopped in midstride.

Scott shook his head, thinking he was seeing a vision like people did when they were out in the heat of the dessert. He blinked several times then looked again. It was the shape of a little boy about four years old, dressed in a blue velvet jacket and knee pants with white knee socks tucked into black button shoes. He had large round eyes that stared right at Scott and thick blonde hair with bangs. He was holding something in his hand. Now Scott knew he was losing his mind. He was hallucinating, bringing his dream to life. Putting his hands on his hips, he tilted his head toward his right shoulder and chuckled while shaking his head slowly back and forth. If only Johnny were here. He'd think of something clever to say about age or seeing things or being downright loco. It was then that he heard the same sound he had heard at the line shack yesterday. "_Paaaawpaaaw_".

Scott shrugged it off until he noticed that all the horses had their ears laid back almost flat against their heads and were stepping backwards until their rumps were tight against the outside wall of the barn. When Scott looked back at the doorway, the illusion was gone and that's what it had to have been because Scott had clearly seen the corral fence right through it.

Scott and Murdoch finished their chores before the heat of the day could really build. While Murdoch thought the house was cooler, Scott preferred to be outside and so made himself comfortable in the shade by the side of the house, stretching his legs out on the chaise and keeping a glass of ice cold lemonade at his elbow. He settled in with a book that he had been trying to finish. The story, although interesting, was so complex that it required the reader's full attention.

Scott heard a rider and looked up to see his brother coming toward the house. Slightly surprised that Johnny had come home so soon, he watched until Barranca and his master disappeared into the barn then went back to his reading. A short time later, Johnny came strolling out the barn. He was tossing what looked like an orange up with one hand and then catching it with the same one over and over. He passed by Scott's chaise and took a seat in the other one which sat at some distance. He continued to entertain himself.

"What are you doing back so soon?" Scott asked, turning the page but never looking up.

"Too hot!" Johnny groused. "I never, ever, in my whole entire lifetime thought I'd say it was too hot to . . .well, you know." Johnny was clearly enjoying his game but – as Scott could see the movement out of the corner of his eye and found it distracting – he was losing his patience.

"Do you have to do that?" Scott asked through clenched teeth.

"It's fun! What else is there to do in this heat?" Toss and catch. Toss and catch. Toss and catch.

Scott closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Johnny, I only have a handful of pages left and I want to finish this book before I go to bed tonight."

"So finish. I ain't even talkin'."

"No, but you're driving me crazy tossing that . . . thing and catching it over and over. Where did you get it anyway?" Scott closed his book. It was no use to keep reading. He couldn't concentrate on the plot with Johnny playing his silly game.

"Found it by the south door to the corral." Toss and catch. Toss and catch.

"You found a what . . . an orange lying on the ground over by the south corral? I find that hard to believe." Scott turned to pick up his glass of lemonade. Taking several swallows he put the glass down and turned back to sit straight.

"Yah, I'd find that hard to believe too, Boston. But it ain't an orange."

"Oh? What then?"

"Here, catch." Johnny tossed his plaything to his brother who caught it in both hands. When Scott opened his fingers his eyes grew wide and he noticeably paled.

"What's the matter Boston? You act like you've never seen one before."

Scott held a brightly colored ball in his palms; a brightly colored orange ball with very thin stripes of lemon yellow, lime green and purple around its middle.


End file.
